


Wicked Games

by Phoenix_Soar



Series: Wicked Thing [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Light Angst, M/M, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Porn with Feelings, Rimming, Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), The Author Has No Excuse For This
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-20 19:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: This is their game, a wicked game they’ve been playing for centuries. Clandestine meetings in dark places under the guise of their Arrangement, all of which culminate in wet mouths coming together, and clothes torn off under reckless hands...Crowley wants more than they have, but he knows better than to ask.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wicked Thing [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546879
Comments: 61
Kudos: 645
Collections: British Angels and Demons, The Good Omens Library





	Wicked Games

**Author's Note:**

> This is not my first time writing smut per se, but it is my first time posting anything above T-rated (and I skipped Mature and went straight to Explicit whoop)
> 
> This fic is exactly what it says in the tags and nope I have no excuse for it.

Crowley is a wicked thing, as befits a Demon that slithered up from Hell to seduce and tempt.

Crowley is a wicked thing and Aziraphale is moaning his name, obscenely, into the darkness, in all manners unbefitting of an Angel sent down from Heaven to spread righteousness.

‘No, no, we shouldn’t!’ he gasps, his chest heaving as he hands scrabble for purchase on the mussed sheets beneath him.

Sheets already damp with sweat, filthy and debauched. Just like Aziraphale.

He knows what a picture he makes, spread naked on ivory silk with his legs slung over Crowley’s shoulders as the Demon thrusts his tongue, slick and inhumanly _long_, past Aziraphale’s loosened, quivering hole.

‘P-please…! This is - oh! - this is wron - _AH_!’ Aziraphale almost arches off the bed when Crowley twists his tongue without warning, doing _that thing_ he does that has Aziraphale seeing stars.

Crowley’s fingers dig deep into his hipbones, keeping Aziraphale firmly down on his sinful tongue. The Angel moans, thrashing his upper body as Crowley gives a searing suck, even as his tongue presses in deeper, greedily massaging his walls.

Aziraphale almost wails, his heels digging into Crowley’s back. ‘Oh, we can’t, we can’t!’

Crowley pulls away abruptly, with a sound obscene and wet and entirely deliberate, Aziraphale knows.

‘Can’t we, angel?’ he drawls, breathing hotly on Aziraphale’s entrance. The tight muscles, spit-slicked and gleaming, are quivering, as are Aziraphale’s thighs around Crowley’s head.

‘Sure you want me to stop? Because your body,’ Crowley licks up a slow, wet stripe between Aziraphale’s plump arse cheeks, ‘seems to be saying something else entirely.’

Biting down hard on his lower lip, Aziraphale cants his hips down, seeking Crowley’s mouth again.

This is their game, a wicked game they’ve been playing for centuries. Clandestine meetings in dark places under the guise of their Arrangement, all of which culminate in wet mouths coming together, clothes torn off under reckless hands, and finally the glide of skin-on-skin and voices raised together in heavenly ecstasy.

And in every game, Aziraphale puts up, if only for a while, a front of not wanting it, of trying to escape the pull between them. It had taken Crowley decades to recognise it for the facade it is, a half-hearted act borne out of Aziraphale’s fear of discovery.

If Crowley could have it his way, their meetings would not be clandestine nor would more than a day be allowed to go by - let alone decades - before he could have Aziraphale writhing in his arms again.

But Aziraphale’s fears are not unfounded and, as it is, Crowley is glad to have what he can have of the Angel. Even if it means listening to Aziraphale protest in words even as his body welcomes Crowley’s touch.

Even if it means making love to him in the name of a wicked game.

No, not making love. Fucking. That’s what they do, isn’t it?*

(* Because Crowley isn’t allowed to make love to Aziraphale.

_‘We can’t’. _Plausible deniability.)

‘What do you want?’ Crowley asks, ignoring Aziraphale’s canting hips as the Angel seeks his mouth again. His arms are still holding Aziraphale’s thighs over his shoulder, his lips mere inches from Aziraphale’s heat.

He won’t touch again until Aziraphale says it.

‘C-Crowley!’ Aziraphale’s voice is a croak, shot with frustration and need.

Crowley doesn’t budge. ‘Thought you wanted me to stop.’

‘_Crowley_!’

‘Thought we _can’t_.’

He’s pushing it. Their back-and-forth is part of the game, but calling out so blatantly on Aziraphale’s weak pretence of not wanting this is toeing a line.

Aziraphale stills and Crowley wishes he can take back the words. Hundreds of years of doing this, and he has ruined everything with a single, ill-placed comment.

For an agonisingly long moment, there is nothing but their hard breathing to be heard in the dim room. Just four walls in some nameless place somewhere in the world, of no real consequence except for the fact that it’s where Aziraphale is with him now, so many years after their last encounter in another, nameless place.

And now he’s gone and ruined it.

Aziraphale braces himself on his elbows, raising his upper body so that he can look Crowley in the eyes.

Crowley's eyes are as bare as the rest of him. Aziraphale had gently removed his small, tinted glasses the very first time he pulled Crowley into bed with him that fateful day in Rome*, after Crowley had given Aziraphale what he’d initially feared was an ill-advised kiss. He has never kept his eyes hidden from Aziraphale behind closed doors ever since.

(* Crowley doesn’t know if what people say about oysters is true. What he _does_ know is how he felt the first time he saw Aziraphale devour one. It’s a memory he pays homage to every time Aziraphale wants him between his legs.)

‘What was that?’ Aziraphale says, his voice entirely too calm considering how wrecked he sounded only moments ago.

Retracting his words, despite the offer of what appears to be a second chance, will not be wise, Crowley knows.

So he repeats, just as calmly, though his heart is anything but, ‘You said we _can’t_.’

‘Can’t,’ Aziraphale echoes. ‘It’s true. We can’t. We _shouldn’t_. But…’ His eyes are blazing as he holds Crowley’s gaze, ‘when has that _ever_ stopped you?’

Crowley gapes, jaw slack, for a heart-pounding second, before he surges up, capturing Aziraphale’s lips in a brutal kiss. Aziraphale settles back on the bed, pulling Crowley down on top of him, their mouths giving way to each other in a fierce, familiar dance. Aziraphale slings a leg around the back of Crowley’s thighs, bringing him in closer, and Crowley obliges the unspoken request, grinding down until he has Aziraphale panting into his mouth.

‘What do you want?’ He repeats in a low voice.

Aziraphale doesn’t answer, his head flung back against the pillow as he bites down on his lip, poorly muffling a groan as Crowley grinds down harder against him.

The expanse of his throat, arched and inviting, is irresistible and Crowley lowers his mouth to it, marking Aziraphale with teeth and tongue.

’Tell me what you want, angel.’*

(‘_Anything you want. Whatever you need. It’s yours._’

The latter part Crowley always leaves unspoken. But Aziraphale knows. Of course, he does.)

‘Crowley,’ Aziraphale gasps, but his next words are lost in a moan.

It’s almost impossible to pull away, not with Aziraphale writhing up against him the way he is, but Crowley pushes up off him, going up on his hands and knees. The sound Aziraphale makes at the loss of contact almost burns through him, a feverish haze.

‘Say it, angel.’ It takes all of his willpower to sound calm, as if Aziraphale weren’t driving him mad with lust.*

(Lust and another emotion he has left unnamed for aeons.

‘_We can’t_.’)

‘Say how you want it. Do you want me down there again? Finish you on just my tongue?’ The first time Crowley had discovered that he could do _that_ to Aziraphale, he himself had nearly come untouched at the very thought of it.

Aziraphale looks up at him, pupils blown wide and mouth parted. He makes such a vision, all laid out for Crowley and yet utterly _demanding_, and Crowley always, always, gives in to him.*

(* He always wants to.)

He licks his lips, slow and deliberate, and watches how Aziraphale follows the movement.

‘Tell me what you want, angel.’

And at long last, Aziraphale says it.

‘You.’

Crowley allows himself a moment to revel in it. It’s not the first time Aziraphale has said it - Crowley has made centuries’ worth of memories of Aziraphale gasping that word in his ear - but it hits him the same way every time.

It’s part of the game, for all appearances. But it’s not. They both know it’s not.

As the moment lengthens, Aziraphale reaches for him, his fingers desperate and coveting.

‘I want you, Crowley. Now. Oh, _please_.’

Crowley smiles, his eyes momentarily tender as he allows Aziraphale to pull him down again.

He doesn’t reply with _yes, of course, anything you want, it’s yours,_ because Aziraphale knows.

Instead, he just gives, as he always does, and takes what Aziraphale gives of himself to Crowley in return. He knows Aziraphale so well, knows how to angle his hips to make Aziraphale cry out, knows how to set the pace that will leave him boneless and satiated and, if Crowley is lucky, unguarded enough for a few minutes afterwards, in which Crowley can hold him and pretend that this is everything he’s ever wanted.

But he also knows Aziraphale well enough not to press loving kisses to his mouth when it’s over.

He knows better than to expect that Aziraphale won’t leave because of course, he will.

He’ll leave because Crowley is a wicked thing* and this is just a wicked game they play, during clandestine meetings in dark places - and when the latest round is over, there is no need to linger lest they are found out.

(* Crowley is a wicked thing, but only because Aziraphale needs him to be.

He likes to imagine, as one with too much imagination tends to, that there will come a day when they don’t have to fear anymore, and they can meet openly in bright places with names, and Crowley is allowed to make love to Aziraphale.

And when it’s over, neither of them leaves.

But until then, Crowley will remain a wicked thing, playing this wicked game.)

**Author's Note:**

> I originally sat down tonight to work on my other Good Omens WIP but I fell on my keyboard and this is the end result.
> 
> I'm really nervous about posting this tbh, I've never shared mature content before. Let me know what you guys thought? ^///^


End file.
